Decatur Democrat, Volume 39, Number 24, Decatur, Adams County, 30 August 1895 — Page 8

iiiS. x*dA L^jASBI \ w Zkrj , /Zw< JRax IkH™ fw

feSww wAWWr 'fjf/ , j®r

CHAPTER XIII.— Continued.) ! One evening, shortly before Christmas, Marsden had looked in later than usual, A»fter dining with some friends at his dun. He stood on the hearth-rug re tal J h “* th , e political and other gossip he had heard, Kind questioning Mrs. L’Estrange and fN’ora respecting their shopping. “Mrs. Ruthven is coming to town next .. week,” he said. “I had a talk with Shirfey to-day. He has been down to see her; lhe has not deigned to communicate wit 0 aae, but I hear through my solicitor she K has sold that villa she was so wild to get I;* month or six weeks ago, and made flf- : teen hundred pounds by the transaction. K "Is it possible!” exclaimed Nora, fe "Some people seem to have the power of turning all they touch to gold, said Mrs. L’Estrange. "Fortunate people,” returned Marsden. {"Talking of gold, I see Winton s old fancle died rather suddenly on the thirteenth, so, I suppose he’ll have plenty to do settling his affairs, Instead of rushing Irack to punish the unworthy in his dis‘trict ts “Was old Mr. Winton rich?” asked Mrs. L’Estrange, carelessly. \ “I am not sure. I think I have heard that he made money or saved money of hate years. He lived at a little shooting s box he had on the edge of a Yorkshire jnoor. I don’t think he ever held up his head since ‘Black Mark’ went to the bad.” "Do not say that, Mr. Marsden! exh claimed Mrs. L’Estrange, earnestly, fe "Father and son misunderstood each ■other; but the son was more sinned against than sinning.” Her delicate face I Hushed as she spoke. f “You are more charitable than most I people, Mrs. L’Estrange, to one who, if ■ hot sorely belied, did not care for any one Save himself; at any rate, it is likely Red Mark, as we used to call him, will step into his shoes.” f “Old Mr. Winton had a daughter, I i think?” “Yes, who married against his will. I don’t know what became of her. Perhaps she may come in for some of the Rather’s money. But 1 must bid you goody, as well as good-night. I am going down to Evesleigh to-morrow to see after some matters. I don’t fancy, after all, Mrs. Ruthven will take the place, she fas made so many difficulties and stipulations.” “How long shall you be away?” asked ■Nora, who had grown very silent of late. “Well, quite three or four days. You’ will write to me, will you not, my sweetest sweetheart?” “Yes, certainly.” "And will you take a parcel for me to Brookdale?” asked Mrs. L’Estrange. "I’ll go and fetch it.” “With pleasure,” said Marsden. Now, Idearest,” he cried, as soon as they were alone, “one farewell kiss. I have an odd «ort of fancy that this may be the last you’ll ever give me. It is extremely absurd, this superstition, and must mean I ;am going to die, for if I live I shall undoubtedly have many a sweet kiss in the -days that are coming.” “Do not think of such things, Chfford, aaid Nora, more touched by his words Kan he was aware, and she leaned forward to press her lips gently to his cheek. r “I trust you may have many, many happy years before you.” “Will you make me happy? “I will do my best for you, dear Clifford. I will, indeed.” “God bless you, darling!” kissing her hair, her brow, her cheeks quickly, passionately, and letting her go as Mrs. t L’Estrange re-entered the room. I “It is not very large, and if you will a send it over to the cook at Brookdale, I be much obliged,” she said, handing the packet to him. | After a few more words Marsden bid ; them adieu and departed. Mrs. L’Estrange I and her step-daughter drew nearer the | fire, and sat for some minutes in silence. I "I did not think Mr. Marsden as bright 4 as usual,” said the former, at length. I1 «jj o He was a little more serious than } usual,” returned Nora. I “But he is always pleasant and kind. < I really think, dear Nora, you are wonLderfuliy fortunate. Yours is a case where | true love has run smooth.” “The Ides of March have come, not j gone.” I “That is quite an uncanny speech, I Nora.” There was another pause. |: Then Nora, gathering up her resoution, I said quietly: » “Did Clifford Marsden know Mr. WinB ton and his cousin when they were all f boys ?” <f L‘ “Yes. They used to be in Oldbridge , now and then, and he was at my father’s E rectory once.” t “Will you think me unwarrantably inI trusive If I ask you a few questions about I 'those by-gone days?” laying her hand | gently on her step-mother’s knee. I Mrs. L’Estrange smiled thoughtfully. I “No, dear, I can tell you anything, and Lthere is not much to tell.” p “Did you know Clifford before you marI tied my father?” “Scarcely knew him. I met him sev- ■ pral times. He was a delightful boy at ! nineteen or twenty.” “Was he a great friend of Mark WinL ton’s?” k’ “ifo. More the friend of the other ■ Mark. You know both the Wintons had ;■ |the same name, it used to make confusion. |; They had not been brought up exactly ft together. They were at different schools, | but both were sent to study with my 1 father—One for the army, the other for B India. We used to distinguish them as ■ Black and Red Marks. They made Clif- ■ ford Marsden’s acquaintance at his aunt’s, ■ Mrs. Atherley’s, at Oldbridge, and he ■ came down from London- to see them R*bnce, for a few days, to my father’s recB tory in Hampshire. Oh! what a sweet ■ home it was. What ages away back that ■ time seems!” ■ “And!” whispered Nora, leaning lightly ■against her companion and fixing her eyes ■on the glowing epals, “Mark Winton was ■very fond of you ?’ H “Well,” returned Mrs. L’Estrange, with H* . quiet smile, “he fancied he was —be ■Baid he was—and I, a fooligh, motherless EtirL believed him.”

“But was he not faithful and true?” cried Nora, infinitely surprised. “There might have been a mistake somewhere! but it all came hard enough on me,” returned Mrs. L’Estrange. “There was a gentleman in our neighborhood who wished me to marry him—a very good fellow. I was inclined to like him, but after Mark made me believe he loved me I thought of no one else, and I refused my first admirer. Then Mark went away to India. He wrote to me once or twice. Then came my great sorrow. My dear father died, leaving barely sufficient to pay his debts. I was very friendless, we had lived away from all our relations, and I waited and waited for a letter from Mark, but none came for more than a year. Then I had a curious epistle, bidding me farewell, and expressing deep regret for any pain he might have caused me, but that marriage was out of the question for him. I never replied. I felt that chapter was closed forever. That W’as just after I went to live with Miss Webster—an engagement Mrs. Atherley got for me.” “I could never have believed that such a man as Mr. Winton would have acted so basely,” exclaimed Nora, her heart beating, her eyes lit up with indignation. “How can you ” • “But, Nork,” interrupted Mrs. L’Estrange, quickly, “it was not Red Mark, whom you know, who behaved in this way! I do not fancy he ever was In love in his life. Oh, no! It was his cousin. Our friend was always true and steady. I well remember when, owing to the similarity of name, some knowledge of his cousin’s engagement to me reached him, he warned me against throwing away a certainty for a wlll-o’-the-wlsp, as, no doubt, I did. Ah! that was a dreadful time. Its bitterness and mortification sting me still! My life, under its new conditions, was dreary and trying enough to make me very grateful to your father for giving me the chance of leaving it—and you know the rest.” “Then ” Nora paused, and, changing her sentence, observed, “Do you know, I fancied, at one time, that you would marry Mr. Winton?” Mrs. L’Estrange laughed softly. “That is curious,” she said, “for I fancied you and he were taking to each other, until after the Evesleigh ball—when a sort of change came to both of you.” There was a pause of a few minutes. The light died out of Nora’s eyes—the color from her cheek. At length she said: “Then you would not marry Mr. Winton?” “It is extremely unlikely he would even ask me,” said Mrs. L’Estrange, laughing. “And as to me, all ideas of love or matrimony are over forever. Bea is, and will be, my only love. I want no more.” A dull sense of despair numbed Nora’s heart; it was a few seconds before she could collect herself to say: “Do you think Clifford Marsden knew all this?” * “Yes; I imagined he did. He was very friendly with Mark and continued to be after our friend, Red Mark, went out to India. My fiance, as I fancied him to be, did not go till after. He was appointed to a regiment stationed at Delhi, and, I believe, was very unfortunate and weak. Mr. Winton gave me an account of his later life. He died two years ago. I had not heard anything of him for a long time, and I was grieved to think of his wasted life! How well it is that the future is hidden from us! There, dear, is the whole history." The whole history! Mrs. L’Estrange little dreamed what a sting it left in her step-daughter's soul. Was Clifford Marsden’s memory really defective? Or, had he misrepresented facts? Surely he was too much of a gentleman to do so? At any rate, she (Nora) had been juggled out of the best chance of happiness ever offered her; for she now felt convinced Mark Winton had loved her from the first. a “Dear Helen,” she said, rising with an effort, “I have kept you up too late; let us go to bed. What an extraordinary jumble life is!” “Yes! Is it not incomprehensible?” returned Mrs. L’Estrange, kissing her. “You look dreadfully pale and tired, Nora.” “Incomprehensible!” the word kept repeating itself in fiery syllables all night long; strive as she would, Nora could hear nothing else, think of nothing else. What an ’ incomprehensible destiny that which doomed her and the man that loved her well, as she now believed, to separation forever! Was she deceived or only inadvertently misled? If deceived she would never, never forgive. And she must find out. CHAPTER XIV. The balmy air of Torquay did wonders for Mrs. Ruthven, and her own resolute eagerness to regaift health and strength still more. The attentions and inquiries of various noble and distinguished invalids, sojourning, like herself, in that famous resort, soothed and satisfied her. Lady Dorrington had written glowing eulogiums and recommendations of her friend and guest, and all things promised fair for the ensuing spring campaign. But though sweet and placid to those few favored visitors who were admitted to her presence, the real vivifying influence which was bringing back energy to her system was the hope, the prospect of revenge. To lose Clifford'Marsden, by whom she had been so fascinated, was bad enough; to lose the lord of Evesleigh, the hero of a hundred conquests, was worse; to lose him to a simple, inexperienced girl, whom she had herself praised and patronized, was worst of all.’ Already society had begun to talk of i Clifford Marsden being about to marry some country nobody; but as yet there was , no certainty in the report, and, deep in > her heart, Mrs. Ruthven swore the mari riage should never take place. It was part of* her scheme to prevent f Evesleigh from going into strange hands, t even for a season. She was determined to rule there herself. Captain Shirley’s r visit was a stimulating tonic; but she 1 was not too confidential with her right--5 hand man. She listened to his accounts of Marsi den's devotion to Nora, the steadiness 3 and sobriety of his life in consequence, 3 of the early date fixed for their marriage, the rumors that he. intended to SAXtXa Jdl

he possibly could upon his bride-elect, eto, to all of Which Mrs. Ruthven listened almost in silence, with downcast eyes, and a slight, inscrutable smile. In vain, Shirley tried to draw some observations from her, which might indicate in what direction the current of her feelings was setting. He could not even make up his mind if she had resolved to renounce Marsden. The only sentence which escaped her lipa on the subject was when Shirley reiterated the report that the marriage was to take place immediately; then Mrs. Ruthven said, languidly: “If it does not take place soon it will probably not take place at all." , “May I ask your reason for saying so?” "Well, chiefly because Mr. Marsden is not a man of very fixed purpose—and—something may occur to change his views. Talking of change, did I tell you that I have got rid of that place at Twickenham ? It seems that a rich stock broker took a violent fancy to it, and he has given me a thousand pounds for my bargain.” i “Did you tiro of it so soon?” asked Shirley, in surprise. “Yes; sickness and seclusion have wrought a radical change in me. I now I feel I must be in London and in the cose- ■ plete country, alternately.” “I am afraid, Mrs. Ruthven, that I , have unconsciously done something, or left undone something, that has induced you to withdraw the confidence you once placed in me,” said Shirley, with a wounded air, looking straight into her eyes. “Then you are mistaken; I give you exactly the same amount of confidence I always did —a good deal, but by no means all. You have been useful to me, and I have been useful to you. I am still disposed to be your friend, but do not suppose you have the smallest power to injure me. The day is long gone by for that.” “Injure you! Do you suppose that such an idea ever crossed my mind? My inclination is only to be your best devoted servant—more, if you would accept me! ’ Mrs. Ruthven laughed softly. “I quite believe you,” she said; “stiff ” “You have never been quite the same since you were robbed of your rubies,” he interrupted. “You seem to have grown doubtful of every one." “I am," she exclaimed, with sudden fire. “Utterly, completely distrustful; and you mutter feeble complaints because I will not tell you the vague hope I have of recovering them. Leave that alone; I may confide even that to you one day, but never if I find yon presuming to try discovery on your own account. I alone have a slight clew, and I will have no one meddle.” Shirley looked at her so completely startled and surprised that she laughed a strange, almost hysterical, laugh. “You must not excite yourself, he exclaimed; “you might bring on another relapse." “That would never do,” she returned, in an altered voice. “I want to be well soon; I have a good deal to do. Tell me, Shirley," she went on, “why did you not make love to Nora L’Estrange? would have been a suitable wife for you. “I was quite willing to do so, but somehow it was impossible. I could never get beyond the weather, or the last new waltz, with her.” “What is there different in her from other women?" she asked, scornfully, “ypu have been tolerably successful with other women.” “I don’t know; Miss L’Estrange is frank and pleasant, and all that sort of thing, but she is the most inaccessible woman I ever came across.’ “Shirley, you are a fool! A young creature fresh from the school room and educational irons, is the easiest game of all! Man, have you so little experience as not to know you can always count on at least one traitor within the trenches?” “Perhaps the game was not sufficiently exciting; anyhow, Winton did not give a fellow a chance.” “Winton! Yes, that is a man I should enjoy mortifying. I think he was fond of Nora L’Estrange, and I suspect she liked him. But who would refuse Marsden of Evesleigh?” “He is not so great a catch.” "Listen to me,” cried Mrs. Ruthven, -not heeding him. “I want to go to London—let me see—l think I could bear the journey next week. I want you to take rooms for me at the Alexandria Hotel; I shall keep them for awhile. I like this place, and can go up to town as I like. You must secure good rooms, and have everything made comfortable and warm — above all things, warm.” Captain Shirley took her directions with profound attention, and then their talk flowed in ordinary channels. Mrs. Ruthven, was quiet, and in rather a more cheerful mood; she was more civil and friendly than usual. Yet Shirley left her with an impression that there was danger in the air. (To be continued.) Mushrooms as Food in Europe. As an article of food mushrooms are becoming mora* widely and favorably known each year. Immense quantities are grown for market in caves near Paris, some of the beds being seven miles long. One grower has twentyone miles of mushrooms growing at Mery. In Italythe truffle beds are so valuable that they are guarded as carefully as are game preserves In England. But the poachers, quite equal to the necessity, train their dogs to go among the beds, dig up those mushrooms of marketable value, and bring them out to the edge, where they are waiting to receive them. Mushrooms bring in a revenue of £4,000 a year to Rome, and M. Roques calls the despised toadstools the “manna of the poor.” Mr. Julius Palmer, our own authority on mushrooms, says: “Were the poorer classes of Russia, Germany, Italy or France to see our forests during the autumn rains, they would feast on the rich food there going to waste. For this harvest requires no seed-time and asks for no peasant’s toll. At the same time the value of mushroom diet ranks second to meat alone. America Is one of the richest countries in mushroom food.”—St Nicholas. 1 The Gorilla’s Lung Power. Recent Investigations have brought to light the fact that the' gorilla Is equipped with a sort of air bag In the chest over the lungs, and connected with the trachea or wind-pipe. By striking this organ the animal Is enabled to emit Tils terrible shrieks and roars. ’ , Bulwer-Lytton knew all the odes and 1 other poems of Horace by heart He translated large portions of Horate’l aomm into English vaxsa.

TALMAGE’S SERMON. WORDS FOR THE BEREAVED AND ' FAINT HEARTED. He Glowingly Pictures tho Attractions of the World Beyond — The Health, the Splendors, the Reunions and the Song of Heaven. Gloriea of Heaven. For the bereaved and faint-hearted there could be no word* of stronger consolation or encouragement than those of the sermon prepared by Rev. Dr. Talmage for last Sunday. His subject was , "Surpassing Splendors.” With inimitable touch, he has pictured the glories and attractions of the world beyond the skies in away to bring joy to believing squls and to fascinate even the thoughtless and indifferent. The text chosen was, “Eye hath not seen nor ear heard.” I. Corinthians ii. 9. v “I am going to heaven! QI am going to heaven! Heaven! Heaven! Heaven!” These were the last words uttered a few days ago by my precious wife as she ascended to be with God forever, and is it not natural as well as Christianly appropriate that our thoughts be much directed toward the glorious residence of which St. Paul speaks in the text I have chosen? Corinth. The city of Corinth has been called the Paris of antiquity. Indeed, for splendor the world holds no such wonder to-day. It stood on an isthmus washed by two seas, the one sea bringing the commerce of Europe, the other the commerce of Asia. From her wharves, in the construction of which whole kingdoms had been absorbed, war galleys with three banks of oars pushed out and confounded the navy yards of all the world. Huge handed machinery, such as modern invention cannot equal, lifted ships from the sea on one side and transported them on on trucks across the isthmus and set them down in the sea on the othef side. The revenue officers of the city went down through the olive groves that lined the beach to collect a tariff from all nations. The mirth of all people sported in her Isthmian games, and the beauty of all lands sat in her theaters, walked her porticoes, and threw itself on the altar of her stupendous dissipations. Column and statue and temple bewildered the beholder. There were white marble fountains, into which, from apertures from the side, there rushed waters everywhere known for health-giving qualities. Around these basins, twisted into wreaths of stone, there were all the beauties of sculpture and architecture, while standing, as if to guard the costly display, was a statue of Hercules of burnished Corinthian brass. Vases of terracotta adorned the cemeteries of the dead —vases so costly that Julius Caesar was not satisfied until he had captured them for Rome. Armed officials, the “Corinthiarii,” paced up and down to see that no statue was defaced, no pedestal overthrown, no bas-re-lief touched. From the edge of the city a hill arose, with its magnificent burden of columns and towers’ and temples—l,ooo slaves awaiting at one shrine —and a citadel so thoroughly impregnable that Gibraltar is a heap of. sand compared with it. Amid all that strength and magnificence Corinth stood and defied the world. Paul’s Text. Oh, it was not to rustics who had never seen anything grand that St. Paul uttered this text. They had heard the best music that had come from the best instruments in all the world, they had heard songs floating from morning porticoes and melting in evening groves, they had passed their whole lives away among pictures and sculpture and architecture and Corinthian brass, which had been molded and shaped, until there was no chariot wheel in which it had not sped, and no tower in which It had not glittered and no gateway that it had not adorned. Ah, it was a bold thing for St Paul to stand there amid all that and say, “All this is nothing. These sounds that come from the temple of Neptune are not music compared with the harmony of which I speak. These waters rushing in the basin of Pyrene are not pure. These statues of Bacchus and Mercury are not exquisite. Yon citadel of Acrocorinthus is not strong compared with that which I offer to the poorest slave that puts down hio burden at that brazen gate. You, Corinthians, think this is a beautiful city; you think you have heard all sweet sounds and seen all beautiful sights; but I tell you ‘eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for him that love him.’ ” You See my text sets forth the idea that however exalted our ideas may be of heaven, they come far short of the reality. Some wise men have been calculating how many furlongs long and wide heaven ’ is, and they have calculated how many inhabitants there are on the earth, how long the earth will probably stand, and • then they come to this estimate—that after all the nations have been gathered to heavefi, there will be room for each soul, a room 16 feet long and 15 feet wide. ' It would not be large enough for me. I ' am glad to know that no human estimate • is sufficient to take the dimensions. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard,” nor arith- , metic calculated. , Health In Heaven. > I first remark that we can in this world ; get no idea of the health of heaven. When you were a child, and you went out in the • morning, how you bounded along the road 1 or street—you had never felt sorrow or 1 sickness! Perhaps later—perhaps in I these very summer days—you felt a glow in your cheek, and a sprihg in your step, r and an exuberance of spirits and a clear- . ness of eye, that made you thank God you ' were permitted to live. The nerves were harp strings, and the sunlight was a 1 doxology, and the rustling leaves were • the rustling of the robes of a great crowd • rising up to praise the Lord. I You thought that you knew what it was I to be well, but there is no perfect health , on earth. The diseases of past generations come down to us. The airs that float • now on the earth are unlike those which 1 floated above paradise. They are charged with distempers. The •most elastic and robust health of earth, compared with that which those experience t before whom the gates have been opened, j is nothing but sickness and emaciation. . Look at that soul standing before the I throne. On earth she was a lifelong invalid. See her step now and hear her r . voice now. Catch if you can one breath of that celestial air. Health in all the I pulses! Health of vision; health of spirits; immortal health. No racking cough, no sharp pleurisies, no consuming fevers, I no exhausting pains, no hospitals of • wounded men. Health swinging in the i air; health flowing in all the streams; jHgjth bieemiag on tin banks. No hwd J

aches, no sideaches, no backaches. That child that died in the agonies of croup, hear her voice now ringing in the anthem. That old man that went bowed down with infirmities of age, see him walk now with tho step of au immortal athlete—forever young again! That night when the needlewoman fainted away in the garret a wave of the heavenly air resuscitated her forever —for everlasting years to have neither ache nor pain nor weakness nor fatigue “Eye hath not seen It; ear hath not heard it.” Splendors of Heaven. I remark further that we can in this work get no just idea of the splendor of heaven. St. John tries to describe it. He says, “The 12 gates are 12 pearls," and that “the foundations of the wall are garnished with all manner of precious stones." As we stand looking through the telescope of St. John we see a blaze of amethyst and pearl and emerald and sardonyx and chrysoprasus and sapphire—a mountain of light, a cataract of color, a seA of glass and a city like the sun. St. John bids us look again, and we see thrones —thrones of the prophets, thrones of the patriarchs, thrones of the angels, thrones of the apostles, thrones of the martyrs, throne of Jesus, throne of God. And we turn round to see the glory, and it is—thrones! Thrones! Thrones! St. John bids us look again, and we see the great procession of tho redeemed passing. Jesus, on a white horse, leads the march, and all the armies of salvation following on white horses. Infinite cavalcade passing, passing; empires pressing into line, ages following ages. Dispensation tramping on after dispensation. Glory in the track of glory. Europe, Asia, Africa, and North and South America pressing into line. Islands of the sea shoulder to shoulder. Generations before the flood following generations after the flood, and as Jesus rises at the head of that great host and waves his sword in signal of victory all crowns are lifted, «nd all ensigns flung out, and all chimes rung, and all hallelujahs chanted, and some cry, “Glory to God most high,” and some, “Hosanna to the Son ofDavid,” and some, “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain”—till all exclamations of endearment .and homage in the vocabulary of heaven are exhausted, and there come up surge after surge of “Amen! Amen!” Amen!" “Eye hath not seen it; ear hath not heard it.” Skim from the summer waters the brightest sparkles, and you will get no idea of the sheen of the everlasting sea. Pile up the splendors of earthly cities, and they would not make a stepping stone by which you might mount to the city of God. Every house is a palace. Every step a triumph. Every covering of the head a coronation. Every meal is a banquet. Every stroke from the tower is a wedding bell. Every day is a jubilee, every hour a rapture, and every moment an ecstasy. “Eye hath not seen it; ear hath not heard it” Reunions in Heaven. I remark further, we can get no idea on earth of the reunions of heaven. If you have ever been across the sea and met a friend or even an acquaintance in some strange city, you remember how your blood thrilled, and how glad you were to see him. What, then, will be our joy, after we have passed the seas of death, to meet in the bright city of the sun those from whom we have long been separated! After we have been away from our friends ten or fifteen years, and we come upon them, we see how differently they look. The hair has turned, and wrinkles have come in their faces, and we say, “How you have changed!" But, oh, when you stand before the throne, all cares gone from the face, all marks of sorrow disappeared, and feeling the joy of that blessed land, methinks we will say to each other, with an exultation we cannot now imagine, “How you have changed!” In this world we only meet to part. It is good-by, good-by, farewells floating in the air. We hear it at the rail car window, and at the steamboat wharf good-by. Children lisp it, and old age answers it. Sometimes we say it in a light way— “good-by”— and sometimes with anguish in which the soul breaks down. Good-by! Ah! That is the word that ends the thanksgiving banquet; that is the word that comes in to close the Christmas chant. Good-by! good-by! But not so in heaven. Welcomes in the air, welcomes at the gate, welcomes at the house of many mansions—but no gqqd-by. That group is constantly being augmented. They are going up from our circles of earth to join it—little voices to join the anthem, little hands to take hold of it in the great home circle, little feet to dance in the eternal glee, little crowns to be cast down before the feet of Jesus. Our friends are-in two groups—a group this side of the river and a group on the other side of the river. Now there goes one from this to that, and another from this to that, and soon we will all be gone over. How many of your loved ones have already entered upon that blessed place! If I should take paper and pencil, do you think I could put them all down? Ah, my friends, the waves of Jordan roar so hoarsely we cannot hear the joy on the other side where their group is augmented. It is graves here and coffins and hearses there. A Dying Negro Boy. A little child’s mother had died, and they comforted her. They said: “Your mother has gone to heaven. Don’t cry.” And the next day they went to the graveyard, and they laid the Body of the mother down into the ground, and the little girl came up to the verge of the grave, and looking down at the body of her mother said, “Is this heaven?” Oh, we have no idea what heaven is! It is the grave here, it is darkness here, but there is merrymaking yonder. Methinks when a soul arrives some angel takes it around to show it the wonders of that blessed place. The usher angel says to the newly arrived: “These are the martyfs that perished at Piedmont. These were torn to pieces at the Inquisition. This is the throne of the great Jehovah. This is Jesus!” “I am going to see Jesus,” said a dying negro boy. “I am going to see Jesus.” And the missionary said, “You are sure you will see him?” “Oh, yes; that’s what I want to go to heaven for.” “But,” said the missionary, “suppose that Jesus should go away from heaven —what then?” “I should follow him,” said the dying negro boy. “Blit if Jesus went down to hell—what then ?” The dying boy thought for a moment and then he said, “Massa, i where Jesus is there can be no hell!” Oh, to stand in his presence I That will be ■ heaven! Oh, to put our band in that i hand which was wounded for us on the i cross, to go around amid all the groups of . the redeemed and shake hands with proph- , ets and apostles and martyrs and with , our own dear, beloved ones—that will be f "the great reunion. We cannot imagine it i now, our loved ones seem so far away. ; When we are in trouble and louesois*; • dop’t see# to come to

We go on the banks of the Jordan and call across to them, but they don’t seem to hear. We say, “Is it well with the child, Is it well with the loved ones?" and we listen to hear if any voice comes back over the waters. None! None! Unbelief says, “They are dead and extinct forever," but, blessed be God, we have a Bible that tells us different. We open it and find that they are neither dead nor extinct; that they were never so much alive as now; that they are only waiting for our coming, and that we shall join them on the other side of the river. Oh, glorious reunion! we cannot grasp it now. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard nnelther have entered into tho heart pf man the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” The Bong of Heaven. I remark again, we can in this world get no idea of the song of heaven. You kuow there is nothing more Inspiriting than music. In the battle of Waterloo the Highlanders were giving way, and Wellington found out that the bands of music had ceased playing. He sent a quick dispatch, telling them to play with the utmost spirit a battle march. The music started, the Highlanders were rallied, and they dashed on till the day was won. We appreciate the power of secular music, but do we appreciate the-power of sacred song? There is nothing more inspiring to me than a whole congregation lifted up on the wave of holy melody. When we sing some of those dear old Kpsalms and tunes, they rouse all the memories of the past. Why, some of them were cradle songs in our father’s house. They are all sparkling with the morning dew of a thousand Christian Sabbaths. They were sung by brothers and sisters gone now, by voices that were aged and broken in the music—voices none the less sweet because they did tremble and break. When I hear these old songs sung, it seems as if the old country meeting houses joined in the chorus, and Scotch kirk and sailors* bethel and western cabins until the whole continent lifts the doxology, and the scepters of eternity beat time to the music. Away, then, with your starveling tunes that chill the devotions of the sanctuary and make the people sit silent when Jesus is coming to hosanna. But, my friends, if music on earth is so sweet, what will it be in heaven? They nil know the tune there. Methinks the tune of heaven will be made up partly from the songs of earth, the best parts of all our hymns and tunes going to add to the song of Moses and the Lamb. AU the best singers of all the ages wiU join it—choirs of white-robed children, choirs of patriarchs, choirs of apostles, morning stars clapping their cymbals, harpers with their harps. Great anthems of God roll on, roU on, other empires joining the the harmony, till the thrones are full of it and the nations all saved. Anthem shall touch anthem, chorus join chorus, and all the sweet sounds of earth and heaven be poured into the ear of Christ. David of the harp will be there. Gabriel of the trumpet will be there. Germany, rodeomed, will pour its deep base voice into the song, and Africa will add to the music with her matchless voices. I wish we could anticipate that song. I wish in the closing hymns of the churches to-day we might catch an echo that slips from the gates. Who knows but that when the heavenly door opens to-day to let some soul through there may come forth the strain of the jubilant voices until we catch it? Oh, that as the song drops down from heaven it might meet half way a song coming up from the earth! COULD NOT FLY. After Fifteen Years’ Imprisonment the Red Bird’s Wings Were Useless. Out in Eden park a few days ago was enacted a little scene that makes some people doubt the wisdom of the law In one particular, though in general no exception can be taken to the workings of the statute In question. The law referred to Is that which makes the Imprisonment of song birds punishable with a fine. Ex-Deputy Sheriff Gus Schilling has an uncle living at Xenia, 0., and fifteen years ago the uncle caught a young redblrd and gave It to his nephew, who kept It up to a few days ago, when It was set at liberty In Eden park, by order of a constable, who claimed to have been sent from Mount Washington to free the bird. After ordering the bird set free the constable left, saying that If he was not Informed of the bird’s being freed In a few days he would arrest the owner. Mr. Schilling, rather than fight the law, repaired to Eden park with bls pet and placed It upon a limb of a tree and started away. No sooner did he turn than the bird flew to his shoulder. Again and again the bird was placed upon the limb and each time flew to its master’s arm. Finally it fell to the ground, and becoming tangled In the grass, was left to its fate. Mr. Schilling now insists that cruelty has been done the bird, which cannot fly long distances, and will be unable to gather Its food. He eays the bird was an.easy sleeper and would • awaken at the least sound and whistle. ' Several young men In the hpuse adjoining Mr. Schilling kept late hours ' some days In the week, and when they ! came home at 1,2 or 8 o’clock In the . morning, as the case might be, the bird , invariably whistled and gave them , away. Recently one of the boys was • censured by his parents for being out 1 late and was told that the redblrd had ’ whistled when he came In. Nothing ’ more was said on the matter till along 5 came the constable, hence Mr. Schilling [ Is Inclined to think that it was spite , work that caused him to lose his bird.— i Cincinnati Times-Star. Persistent Hallucination. 1 As an example of hallucinations t which he attributes to disease of the j parts of the brain where memory Is 10-1 1 cated, Dr. Starr mentions the case of a [ young woman who was once frightened ’ by a white mouse, and for years after- ' ward saw It running about her. ghe f was shown that the mouse was unreal by being requested to push one eyeball e up a little, the effect being to make real t objects—but not imaginary ones—appear 6 double. Some persons hear Imaginary { voices uttering commands, and have been driven by them to commit suicide. e Railroads Run by Receivers. • Receivers are operating 156 railways ? in this country, representing a nomiiMil f capitalw* oootooa : . ■